


The Us We Do Not See

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Daydreaming, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Freaky Tits, Season/Series 02, light fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 13:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10900302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Vera daydreams about domesticity with Joan.





	The Us We Do Not See

**Author's Note:**

> I had intended to crank this out much earlier in the night, but experienced computer troubles and lost the entire doc I had written... So, I had to work this piece from the ground up. Enjoy!

A systematic knock (one, two, three) alerts Joan of an impending visitor. She knows who it is, given the timid nature behind the dull sound. Without so much as a reaction, she calls to that person.

"Stop dawdling. Do come in."

The door unlocks itself. A tired deputy crosses the threshold. Despite the exhaustion that tears into her body, Vera Bennett wears a small, shy smile.

"Hello, Vera."

Governor Ferguson remains detached. Her tone comes across as nonchalant. Funny how a modulated voice like Joan's manages to pluck at the strings that make up Vera's musical heart. Vera swears that she detects an undercurrent of fondness. It puts her at ease.

Joan looks up at the woman who's ragged and worn. How easy to break, how easy to mold.

At the sight of Joan, Vera brightens considerably. She leaves her heels by Joan's. A pair of guest slippers awaits her. Beneath her soles, they act as a plush blessing. She grins like a school girl around her first crush.

Although maintaining an amicable distance, the mouse sits down beside the lioness.

Vera places herself on the opposite end of the sofa. Her acolyte sits at the edge. In a childish way, Vera brings her knees to her chest. In this position, she's able to alleviate the pain that assaults her ankles, hamstrings, and knees. She faults her mother for her predisposition towards rheumatoid arthritis. Cursed by a permanent ache, who else can she blame?

She sneaks a glance at Joan who turns her attention back to the novel. Within her grasp, therein lies a first edition copy of Kafka's "The Trial." The worn, blue spine keeps the pages in place though it's no easy feat. In reverence, Vera studies Joan's profile. She's not sure if she wants to be her or be with her. Here in the grey, she's unsure of many things.

However, the one thing she is certain of happens to be how beautiful Joan appears. The wire-framed glasses do not distract from her authoritarian ways. In fact, it serves as an enhancement. They pinch the defined slope of her nose.

The lines around her eyes remind Vera of hairline fractures forming in glass. It's beautifully mesmerizing. She can't make herself look away.

It's pure art to see Joan in her element, curled up with a good book.

It's a moment that Vera wishes could – should – last forever.

The pages rustle and hiss a delicate hymn.

Initially, Joan marks her spot with her finger. Joan treats her books with the utmost form of care. She marks the pages rather than bends and abuses them. Arguably, she treats them better than people. Literature -- she has told Vera on more than one occasion -- will outlive thousands of insignificant lives over the years.

"What's it about?"

Somehow, Vera finds her tiny voice. She breathes her words; they threaten to tumble together in a rush. In a vapid burst of air.

A ghost of a smile caresses Joan's lips in a manner that is all too enticing, reminding Vera of a cat who's had her fair share of cream.

Joan crooks her fingers in a ' come hither ' gesture. Dutiful Vera obeys. She crawls over. Should it boil down to a matter of trust, she would beg. She would plead. She would do anything to impress her superior. None of this fills her with shame. On the contrary, it gives the small, bird-like woman a sense of purpose.

She lays on her back, belly up, looking vulnerable. Her bun begins to unravel, the hairs from her sideburns as crooked as a bent wire.

“Vera, my dear, one fine day goes awry for a teller.”

She rests her weary head on Joan's lap, blue eyes memorizing the face of her maker – at least, that's how it feels. There's a warmth and a flutter in her stomach; her viscera has become gelatanous, her mind too fuzzy to process much of anything.

“I needn't lecture you on divine will.”

Joan smiles grimly.

It tastes tart to Vera.

What Joan doesn't elaborate on happens to be the experience of alienation: how it consumes and how one tends to accept the plausible logical that authority proposes.

"Would you read it to me?"

The mouse sounds hopeful.

She hums, draws out her contemplation, and seems to feed on the hope.

"Hm... no."

"Why not?"

A coquettish pout is nearly enough to deconstruct the perfect balance balance. She almost falters, as though Vera's tongue is a foil that's delivered a consequential strike. Instead, Joan plaves the text on her coffee table. She reaches out to smooth back her deputy's hair, plucking out the bobbypins one by one to set them down in a uniform row.

By initiating touch, it's a safeguard: a shield and sword combined. Silently struck by the soft fine hairs that delicately trace the nape of Vera's neck, her knuckles breeze across a downy cheek.

"To appreciate the text, you must read it yourself. Absorb its essence. Appreciate the hidden context," she drawls.

Vera frowns in that infectious way of hers. Her forehead crinkles, her lips pulled downward by her own displeasure. She seems to accept the explanation, resuming her interrogation.

“Would you let me borrow it some time?”

“Perhaps.”

Sardonic to a fault, she arches a well-defined brow. Her manicured nails rake over Vera's scalp which acts as a massage. The deputy drapes her forearm over Joan's thigh – Joan, who even in her own home, remains in the vestige of her uniform.

It couldn't be more perfect.

More comfortable.

More blissful.

* * *

"Vera? Vera? You in there?" Fletch waves a hand across her face.

Snapping out of her trance, Vera jolts. The glassy-eyes stare is replaced by shock. In order to reclaim herself, she blinks several times. Stiffens her shoulders. Attempts to stand tall in Wentworth's lonely halls.

“Yes, Fletch. I was just thinking-- I have a lot on my mind.”

Saved by the Devil, her excuse is cut short. The Governor walks by, pride exuding her stride. Ferguson arches a brow, sparing no time. She looks neither of her officers in the eye, continuing about her way. A waste of time proves detrimental in a prison.

"Come along, Miss Bennett. We have much to discuss."

"Oh, um. Yes, Miss Ferguson. As you wish, Guv'na."

Nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she scurries along to keep up with that purposeful stride. Her heels scuff the ground, her mind in a daze, her chest twisting into knots. A dream about domesticity leaves her bewildered, but these are the charming days that Vera wishes were a reality.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the fic is inspired by Saltillo's brand new release. I'm a huge fan. Go check out the song on Youtube, if you can!


End file.
